My Sons, My Everything
by n00btmntfan
Summary: Walking home along the streets of New York, Splinter struggles with painful memories of his life back in Japan. A sign in a pet shop and a rude stranger end up changing everything-but is it a nightmare or an bizarre blessing? "My Sons, My Everything" is a look at the 2012 TNMT universe through Splinter's eyes. Some fluff, mostly emotional exploration. Rated T for mild violence.
1. Chapter 1: Turtles and Strangers

My Sons, My Everything

How could everything have gone so wrong? Splinter wondered, as he walked down the busy street. His eyes scanned the unfamiliar English letters that surrounded him. He knew how to read them fluently; though he was unused to the guttural syllables in his mouth, he could speak them well enough. Even after several months in New York, he could not stop searching for the familiar Japanese characters. He found them in certain suburbs, of course, but he preferred to avoid the predominantly Japanese neighborhoods. It was the same reason he knew he could not open a dojo or do any work in his field of training.

Clans ran deep. Anyone with a connection to the Clan of the Foot, however distant, might recognize him. He could not risk that. He could not risk Shredder coming after him again. He feared that it would not end unless one of them was dead. So as long as Shredder thought that his rival Hamato Yoshi was dead, it was over. Splinter could not bear the thought of facing Shredder, because despite the betrayal, despite everything—Splinter hated him, loathed him, wanted him to burn in the deepest levels of the fiercest hells—he still loved him.

He could not think of killing Oroku Saki without seeing his grinning childhood friend. It was the most painful dichotomy of love and hatred he had ever experienced. He had mourned for the loss of their friendship. Mourned deeply. He hated their rivalry. Hated himself for fueling it.

Love and hate and love and hate…

And Tang Shen and Miwa had paid the price for their pettiness. Poor, innocent, harmless Tang Mei, her husband and two boys murdered the week before Shredder had come to end Splinter's life. They had been sacrificed up on the altar of stupid, childish things that should have been forgotten long ago.

Splinter fumed with rage at the thought. He wanted so desperately to blame it all on Shredder, but hadn't he only poured blackpowder into the fire of Oroku Saki's hatred? Challenged him? Caused the fatal explosion himself? Started the fire that burned down his home, killed his family?

He still woke in the middle of the night, images of fallen candles and rising flames flashing before his eyes.

Had he been the one responsible for starting that fire?

"Hey buddy! Get out of the way!"

Of course. Standing still on a New York walkway was practically punishable by death. Twisting a kink out of his neck, Splinter began to mill forward with the flow of pedestrian traffic.

* * *

"Just look at them," Shen said, looking back and forth between the many displays in the art museum. "They are so beautiful!"

Yoshi raised an eyebrow. "Western Renaissance painters and sculptors?"

"Oh hush," Shen said playfully. "Japan is growing closer to the Western world all the time. They have begun to celebrate our arts, why should we not appreciate theirs? Here, look at this picture of a statue in Italy. What a noble portrayal of an equestrian. Oh! They even have a replica."

"It's a simple sculpture," Yoshi commented.

"Well, I love it. Here. Look at this painting—_The Mona Lisa."_

Yoshi made a big show of scrutinizing the display. "You will never convince me that—some fool with a name like Leonardo—is better than Katsushika Hokusai."

"Not better," Shen laughed. "Equals. Besides, Leonardo here could paint something besides Fujiyama."

"My dear wife," Yoshi replied, shaking his head, "you are thoroughly eccentric."

"Well," Shen whispered, leaning in, "maybe it's because I'm pregnant."

* * *

The tantalizing smells of food filled the air. Walking through an area like this during the evening hour was a horrible idea. Splinter paused, this time carefully moving out of the stream of foot traffic, to check the contents of his wallet. A passport. A greencard. A measly, tattered, twenty-dollar bill. His face and his own name glared harshly up at him from the greencard. Once his immigration papers were completed, he would apply for a new name as a citizen of the United States. A new name. Something Western sounding. Something that Shredder could never unearth. Hopefully.

His stomach rumbled as he caught a whiff of tomato sauce and bubbling brown cheeses. He glanced up at the store front across the street.

Da Vinci's Pizza—Pizza by "Da" Slice!

Pizza sounded excellent. His meager supply of money was waning, but he had grown so weary of rice. He barely ordered take out, but his first experience with pizza was like a new lease on life. He was plunging himself into the Western world, escaping from the memories of Japan that haunted him.

It had been the taste of a new beginning—a rich, saucy, cheesy, pepperoni-topped beginning.

As he started to cross the street, he thought again of the tattered bill in his wallet. It was Monday. It was his last twenty. All that waited for him back at his miserable studio apartment were his few possessions and perhaps five dollars in change. His meager paycheck from the 7-11 would not arrive until next Thursday.

On second thought, it would be a lonely, joyless bowl of rice after all.

* * *

"Oh, Yoshi! Aren't they darling?" Shen stood on the edge of the park's rippling pond, looking gleefully into the water.

Yoshi leaned over and looked where she was pointing. Turtles were indeed cavorting in the water, delightfully energetic until they crawled out to sun on the shore. "You always have loved turtles, haven't you?"

"They are so mysterious. Quick in water, slow on land. They are so at peace with the world, and never in a hurry. You know, some legends say the world is carried on the back of a turtle. And Greek fables say that a tortoise can win against a hare in a race. Slow, and patient. Just like the ninja, no?"

"I have not yet met a turtle which is lethal."

"Say that to the little fish in this pond, my dear. You know, I had a turtle when I was a little girl. When our little baby is born, and old enough, we should get a turtle for her."

"How are you so sure that we will have a girl?"

"I just—know. Would it be so terrible to train a kunoichi instead of a ninja?"

"No," Yoshi muttered.

"Oh, I know you want sons too. Lots of sons. Your own private army of ninjas."

Yoshi couldn't help it. He laughed. "At least four. Though ten would also be good."

"Excellent, you can bear them and give birth to them."

"I am joking. One son would be enough. One daughter would be enough. One child with you, _kasan,_ boy or girl, is enough to change and light up my world."

"You are so sweet. However, it is not as if this is the only child we will ever be able to have together."

"I suppose that is true…"

* * *

With a sigh, Splinter walked past Da Vinci's Pizza and continued on his way. It was only a few more city blocks until he reached home. As he waited for the walk signal to light in the crosswalk, his eye caught a brilliantly colored sign hanging in a pet shop that read, "Turtles 4 Sale."

A pang of emotion ran through him. Turtles. Tang Shen had loved them so much. He resisted the uncontrollable urge to run and look through the glass like the little children that surrounded the window did. Could he bear to see something that reminded him of his past so strongly? The walk signal lit, but instead of moving into the crosswalk Splinter turned and moved toward the shop as though against his will.

The moment he caught a glimpse of the turtles paddling around in huge, shallowly filled tub, his heart melted. There were so many of them! They were all so tiny, not one of them bigger than the palm of his hand. They all seemed so merry. Their lives were new and fresh, unspoiled by anything.

Then he spied one turtle—the tiniest one in the tank. Something about it made it seem like it was smiling. It rolled around playfully. Splinter had never even heard of a turtle doing something like that.

He thought of the lonely apartment he was heading for. No joy. No life. No freshness and spirit. If the world could be carried on the back of a turtle, as the legends said, maybe a little turtle could bring a new world of happiness into his home.

With a sigh, he knew that he could not leave without at least asking the price for the turtles. Maybe he could reserve the tiny hatchling and come back to pay for it next week after he cashed his paycheck.

The door chimes tinkled merrily as he entered the shop. "Hello, good sir, how may I help you?"

"How much for one of the little turtles?"

The shop owner laughed jovially. "We have quite the special on them. An ordering error—and we wound up with these. They were supposed to be older, since the older ones are a little hardier, but these ones can't even be more than a few days out of the egg! So, I'll warn you, they need a little extra care since they're so small, but for five dollars each, why not?"

"Five dollars?"

"Yes sir, and that's including tax. Quite the deal."

"I'll take one."

"Any one in particular?"

"That one."

"The little guy? He still had bits of eggshell stuck to him when we got him in. Make sure you keep him really warm. You have a habitat set up already?"

"No."

"Ah. Well, I recommend a tank for turtles, with some sand and rocks and water, and definitely a heating lamp."

"How much for that?" Splinter asked, wincing internally.

"Well, that's the pro setup, and we have a package deal on that for a flat hundred."

Splinter's shoulders sank.

The pet owner noticed the cue. "We also have a little setup for the kids. It's a shallow glass bowl with some sand and a little model palm tree. It's fifteen dollars retail, but I'm running a special that if you buy at least four of these little turtles, I'll throw it in for free."

"Will it be big enough for four?"

The owner laughed. "Well, that's the catch. I usually suggest buying another bowl or two and in the end I wind up with net gain, you see? But I tell you what—you seem like a really nice guy. I get the feeling you're down on your luck. I'll tell you a secret. If you really want four of the little guys, you can set 'em up in your bathtub. Good luck finding a spot to shower, though. Make sure you keep them warm, but since it's summer now that shouldn't be too hard."

"What do they eat?"

"Well, we have high-quality turtle nutritional pellets, and they also eat feeder goldfish. But they eat about anything—leafy vegetables, bread—in the wild they eat a lot of worms and algae and the like."

Splinter glanced back down into the shallow tub. His tiny little turtle was playfully nibbling at another. The slightly older turtle kept ignoring him, until after it had finally reached the limit of its patience, turned, and bit the little turtle squarely on the nose. They looked like siblings fighting.

"Sold," Splinter said, grinning. "I'll take the little one and his playmate there."

The pet shop owner cheerfully took the small habitat setup, added some water, caught the two rough-and-tumble turtles, and put them in. "You'll have to keep an eye on them," he cautioned. "Sometimes the playing can get kind of rough and one will get hurt."

"Sounds like boys," Splinter said, chuckling.

"Just like two brothers, eh? You know, turtles are pretty smart creatures. A lot of people don't know that. So. We have your two little rivals here. Pick two more and we'll send you all on your way!"

Splinter scanned the turtles in the tub. Most of them looked the same, behaved the same—and then he spied one that was sitting stock still, staring directly up into his face. Splinter held up a hand and moved it to the right. The turtle's shiny eyes followed. Then he moved his hand to the left. Again, the turtle watched his movement. "I think this one wants me to take it home," he said.

"That's one of the older ones," the owner said, taking the creature and placing it in the bowl. Immediately, it crawled in between the two squabbling turtles, effectively splitting their fight. The owner laughed. "Looks like you have a peacemaker there. Just one more."

As Splinter scanned the tub again, he noticed that one of the turtles was completely pulled into its shell. "Is that one hurt?"

The owner looked in where Splinter pointed. He reached in and lifted the creature up and examined it. "Nah, he's just shy." The owner reached for some food and held it in front of the turtle's retracted head. "This one's a thinker. Patiently trying to find the best way to get it before he strikes—there he goes!" The turtle's head shot out and it snatched the pellet, then immediately drew his head back in. The owner laughed. "They really are a lot like people, turtles are. This one would be a scientist or something if he were a human, I think."

"I'll take him then," Splinter said.

"Good choices. All of these are males, so you won't have to worry about any hanky-panky and then lots more turtles to take care of. And look at that, will you? I'd say no two of 'em hatched the same day. Your peacemaker there is the oldest, your little one's playmate next, then your thinker, and of course tiny here is the youngest."

Even as he handed over his last twenty dollar bill, Splinter was grinning from ear to ear. He could not wait to get the little creatures home. It might be a rough week and a half for him, but the tiny joyful lives would make it better. Their starter kit had a small package of food that he could feed them until he got his paycheck. He could dig for worms to feed them if they ran out.

He was happily envisioning the four small turtles cavorting in his bathtub as he walked. He could not stop looking down at them in the bowl. Even the shy turtle had started to come out of his shell, albeit with his neck only half extended. On a whim, Splinter poked a finger into the bowl, and chuckled when the shy turtle immediately retracted into its shell. The tiny one reached up and nibbled the tip of his finger, and then the other two turtles started to push him out of the way so that they could examine it.

Suddenly, a person walking the opposite direction bumped carelessly into him. With a start, Splinter just barely recovered the bowl's balance so that he did not drop his precious cargo. He turned, ready to lecture the stranger on street etiquette New York-style, when his stomach somersaulted.

Something was not right about that man. Splinter wasn't sure what it was, but his instincts were clamoring. The man was behaving strangely and walked with an unnatural gait; he paused, looked around, and then walked down an alley. Unsure of his motivations, Splinter quietly followed. Perhaps it was just a drug deal, but he sensed something sinister was happening.

After trailing the man for a few moments, he discovered that there were four men waiting in the alley. They looked exactly like the man that Splinter was following, down to the last detail. Then one opened a box and pulled out a strange, luminescent canister.

At that moment, Splinter knew that he had to retreat and call the police. Something was very wrong. This was not just drugs, it looked like dangerous chemicals. He didn't know whether it was espionage or terrorism, but the authorities needed to deal with it.

Quietly, carefully, he turned to go.

_Squeak!_

A stray rat squealed loudly as the heel of Splinter's shoe came down on its back. All five men turned to look.

"This is a place where you are not allowed to be in this place," one of them said in an eerie monotone.

"We have been seen in this place by you," said another, his voice identical. "Therefore, this is not a place that will be left by you."

The men charged. Instantly, Splinter took the first one down with a single kick. The second one was just as easily defeated. The third, who was carrying the canister, pulled out some kind of a gun. With a leap, Splinter crashed his foot squarely into the man's neck before the man could even react.

The canister fell to the ground with a crash. Its glowing blue contents splashed up and covered Splinter's front.

The pain was immediate and intense. Splinter started screaming. He couldn't help it. It felt like his skin was dissolving. The bowl with the turtles slipped from his grasp and shattered on the ground. With horror, Splinter saw them writhing in pain as intense as his own.

* * *

He wasn't sure how long the pain lasted. It may have been only seconds or it may have been hours. It seemed like he blacked out partially, because when he came to, the men were gone. The empty, broken canister still lay on the sidewalk, and there was still a pool of ooze lying on the ground. However, the substance had ceased glowing.

With a groan, he pushed himself up from the ground. He was going to call the police immediately. He stumbled toward the street for a few steps when he sensed that something was following him.

No, he was dragging something behind him—it was stuck to him. Turning around, he caught a glimpse of something rope-like and reached down to pick it up.

That was when he noticed his hands. Each was missing a finger. In horror, he started scanning his body. He was covered in fur. Starting to hyperventilate, he felt his face. His ears. He looked back at the rope.

_A tail._

_His_ tail.

When he discovered that he could make the tail move, that it had sensation, that it was a part of him, all of the pieces came together. He had turned into a giant rat.

He had to be seeing things. That substance must have been some kind of hallucinogen. He ran up the alleyway toward the street, and called to a woman who was walking past. "Please help me! I need to go to the hospital!"

The woman turned to look—and she started screaming uncontrollably. Several other people gathered to look, and all of them gasped in horror. Many screamed.

No, no, it could not be true!

In panic, Splinter turned and fled back down the alley. He dodged behind a dumpster and looked at his form in terror. He was completely naked; his clothes had torn when the shape of his body changed so drastically. He had not even noticed, since the layer of fur was so warm.

Confusion, horror, and shame all competed for precedence in his mind. How could this be real? Yet all of his senses told him that it was. There was the sound of police sirens drawing close and the sounds of people shouting. Should he go with the police? If he really had become giant rat, what would they do him? His ninja instincts told him to hide. He saw a manhole cover a few yards to his right. As the sirens grew louder, he knew what he had to do.

He crept over to the manhole cover, trying be as silent as possible. As he lifted up the cover, he suddenly heard the sound of a baby crying on his left. He whipped his head around at the noise.

There, in the puddle of ooze, the smallest of his turtles was lying on its back and crying like an upset infant. The other three turtles had pulled inside their shells entirely, but the shells were trembling.

They had become the size of human babies.

The sirens grew louder. Splinter ran over to the turtles and grabbed two of them and took them over to the manhole. He came back for the other two, then made multiple trips down the ladder until they were all below. He had just barely replaced the manhole cover when he heard the sirens approach the front of the alley and stop.

The youngest turtle was still crying noisily. "Shh, little one," Splinter said, picking him up and cradling him. The turtle did not stop. "Shh, shh, shh, shh."Surely the police could hear it. He shuddered to think what the police might do them. Still the turtle continued to bawl.

Splinter instinctively did what he always had done when Miwa would not stop crying: he gently poked a finger into the turtle's mouth. The turtle's eyes popped open in surprise and he immediately quieted down, sucking on Splinter's finger exactly as a human baby would have done.

"There we are, little one," Splinter whispered. He turned his attention above, listening carefully to the commotion. Suddenly, a shadow passed over the manhole cover—an officer was standing right above them.

"More crazies than usual today, eh, Eddie?" the officer said in a thick Brooklyn accent.

"Yeh," replied another cop. "Giant rat my hind end. I don't care how many witnesses there were. One person suggests somethin' and then they's all seein' it. Happens all the time. They call it hysteria."

"I know what they calls it, Ed," the first officer snapped.

"Say, whaddya make of all this broken glass and goo?"

"I don't even wanna know. We'll send waste management over to deal with it."

"All right. 'Nother job well done, huh?"

As the sound of their footsteps receded, Splinter sighed in relief and looked down at the creature in his arms. He nearly shouted when he realized that the turtle was looking up at him with human eyes. It should not have been possible. The big blue eyes staring up at him belonged in a human face, not a reptile's. And—were those _freckles_ on his cheeks?

The turtle made tiny noises of contentment as it suckled Splinter's finger, exactly like a human baby would.

Exactly like Miwa always had.

Splinter burst into tears. Sorrow, fear, exhaustion, and confusion had finally overwhelmed his self-control. He felt like he was watching his home burn down all over again. He squeezed his eyes shut, but it was not enough to dam the tears. He began to sob aloud.

Suddenly, a tiny cold finger popped into his open mouth, startling him into silence. In surprise, he looked down at the turtle in his arms, who apparently had decided that Splinter needed pacifying as well. At that, Splinter started to laugh uncontrollably. The turtle giggled like a human infant and reached his other arm up and poked that hand into Splinter's mouth, too.

"Silly!" Splinter laughed. He took his finger out of the turtle's drooly mouth and snatched at the turtle's hands, pulling them away from his face. "What are you doing?"

The turtle giggled merrily in response, and he wrapped his tiny hands tightly around Splinter's fingers. Splinter looked at them; they were no longer like a turtle's flipper, but hands with three articulated fingers. One of the digits was even opposable, like a human thumb.

Then, Splinter was aware of six little eyes peering up at him from the ground. The shy turtle was only sticking his neck out halfway as he looked, but the other two had completely emerged from their shells. The crawled over to Splinter's feet and started to pull themselves up on his legs. Immediately, Splinter sat down and pulled them into his lap.

"You can come too, little one," Splinter said to the shy turtle, but he pulled his head back inside his shell. Splinter laughed again. All three turtles in his lap giggled at the sound of his laughter. "Come join your brothers." At that, the shy turtle timidly poked his head out again and stared, as though he were trying to decide whether joining them was advisable. After a moment, he popped out of his shell and crawled over into Splinter's lap.

Eight tiny hands poked and prodded Splinter's face. They pulled at his tail, squeezed his hands, and made all of the noises characteristic of a happy baby. Splinter wasn't sure how long he sat there, bouncing them on his knees and taking turns holding them in his arms, but he was sure that this was the most joy he had experienced in months. He almost felt that if this was a hallucination, he did not want to return to the cold reality he had left behind.

When the smallest turtle yawned loudly, Splinter realized how exhausted he was. He looked around the dark tunnel, and found to his surprise that his night vision was much sharper than it ever had been. He noticed a small recess in the wall of the tunnel. It might be just big enough for the five of them to squeeze into.

Carrying the smallest turtle, he walked over to the recess and called for the other three to follow. They eagerly did, giggling as they came. Then, Splinter crawled in, waited until all of the turtles were snugly against his chest and stomach, and curled around them like a cat to keep them warm.

The little one fell asleep almost immediately, but the three others did not want to settle down. So Splinter started to sing them a lullaby, the one that he and Tang Shen always sang to Miwa. The turtles immediately were silent; in the near darkness, Splinter could see their wide shiny eyes staring at him. As he sang, their eyelids started to droop. Before the song was finished, they were asleep.

Then Splinter closed his own eyes, thought of Tang Shen and Miwa, and let himself drift into slumber.


	2. Chapter 2: A Home in the Sewers

**Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to TNMT.**

Splinter woke to the faint daylight that was filtering into the sewer tunnel. For a few moments, he stared ahead at the wall in front of him, trying to orient himself. He was afraid to look at anything else, afraid to find out whether everything he remembered from the night before was true.

A slight movement against his chest made him look down. Four small, softly breathing, humanoid turtles confirmed the reality of the situation. At first, Splinter was relieved to see that the turtles had made it safely through the night. Then, he realized that this meant what had happened was real—well, assuming he simply hadn't gone insane.

_Now what?_ he thought to himself. He couldn't stay here all day. When the turtles woke, they would be hungry. For that matter, he was hungry. They needed fresh water and a place to stay. He could try to sneak them into his apartment, but even if he could do that in broad daylight, they couldn't stay there forever.

For now, he would explore the sewers and try to find a suitable spot. He hoped that there might be a section of tunnel no longer in use, and that he could possibly fix it up to make a temporary home for him and the turtles.

Carefully, Splinter disentangled himself from the four turtles, trying not to wake them. Only the little one made a noise, but did not wake. Splinter smirked at the memories of Miwa rousing with the slightest noise. Tang Shen was always severely under-rested as a result.

He spent a few moments stretching and surveying his surroundings. He practiced a few katas to loosen up and familiarize himself with his new body structure. All in all, it wasn't so different, and he found that his tail made his balance more stable than it ever had been. Better night vision, better balance…perhaps becoming a rat wasn't the most horrible thing that could happen to a ninja.

After loosening his joints, he turned to look back at the turtles. The oldest one, now awake, was staring at him with delight. Splinter performed another kata and almost laughed when the turtle gurgled in glee. "You like that, turtle-bo?" he asked. The turtle giggled loudly, waking his brothers. Promptly, the youngest started crying.

Naturally, it started a chain reaction and soon all four turtles were wailing.

Splinter decided that he should go to the surface and see if he could find anything suitable for them to eat in the dumpsters. The thought disgusted him, but he supposed that if he was a giant rat he may as well get used to it. Acceptance, after all, was the key to true peace.

And unless these turtles ate something, there would certainly be no peace. He left the wailing turtles in the alcove and climbed up to the world above.

This early in the morning, there was very little human traffic around the alleyway. Splinter managed to find a past-date, wilted head of lettuce near the top of the garbage pile. He tossed it into a large, empty cardboard box that stood beside the dumpster. He continued to rummage around, looking for anything useful, when he saw something glittering out of the corner of his eye.

Turning, he saw the partially shattered glass canister that had changed everything. With a sigh, he carefully picked it up and examined it. There were no more traces of the strange ooze it had contained; apparently its exposure to the air had caused it to evaporate away. On a whim, he decided to keep the container. He also gathered up the few scraps of his tattered clothing that lay on the ground. When he found his set of keys and his wallet, he sighed in relief. Tonight, he would be able to sneak back into his apartment and collect all of his belongings.

After his scrounging, Splinter returned back into the dank warmth of the sewers and hurried over to the alcove where he had left the turtles. He cursed himself when he saw that all four of them were gone.

"Turtles?" he cried, looking around frantically.

Suddenly, a cold hand wrapped itself around his ankle. Looking down, he saw the littlest turtle staring up at him with teary eyes. Setting down everything, Splinter immediately scooped the turtle up in his arms. "There you are," he said. "Where are your brothers?"

A soft noise came from behind, near the bottom of the access ladder. Splinter whirled around to find the other three turtles sitting there. They all stared at him with looks of profound abandonment.

"I'm sorry, little ones," he said. "Come here. I found something to eat." He sat down on the damp sewer floor and started tearing off pieces of the limp lettuce, which he handed to the turtles. They ate it readily. With a sigh, Splinter took a nibble of the expired produce. To his surprise it wasn't as bad as he expected. Apparently he acquired the taste tolerance of a rat as well.

_Lovely._

After he fed the turtles, he decided to scout out a more suitable place to live. Thinking better of just leaving the turtles on their own, he emptied the cardboard box of its contents and put the turtles inside. It was deep enough that they should not be able to escape.

He spent the rest of the day exploring the sewers, being careful to track his progress so as not to get lost. Eventually, he found a place that seemed to be an old subway route, long abandoned. There was a large cavernous room with an open vent high above. It let in a ray of sunshine and a breath of fresh air. Below the vent, a small tree, perhaps two or three years old, spread its branches toward the light. Splinter thought that the place would be as good as any—secluded, but not completely removed from nature.

He headed back to retrieve the turtles and bring them to their new home—if it could be called a home.

A pang of guilt greeted him when he returned to hear a cacophony of crying emerging from the cardboard box. "It's all right, turtles. I'm here." He looked into the box with a warm smile to greet the turtles inside.

Three turtles.

_Three!_ The shy turtle was gone.

"Turtle!" cried Splinter, looking around frantically. "Where are you?"

Panic. Guilt. Fear. Trying to swallow the emotions and forge on with a sense of calm, Splinter squinted and searched the surrounding area with his newly keen night vision. He moved further and further from the crying turtles, calling out again and again.

How could he have been so careless? How could the turtle have even gotten out of the box in the first place? A sudden sound to his left made him whirl around. Two tiny eyes glistened at him from behind a pile of rocks.

"Turtle?" The shy little reptile crawled out. With a sigh of relief, Splinter scooped the turtle up in his arms and gave him a little squeeze. "How did you get out? What are you doing over here?" The turtle squirmed and tried to escape Splinter's grasp. Splinter set him down again. "You frightened me, little one."

The turtle giggled and crawled back over to the pile of rocks. Suddenly, Splinter realized that the turtle had been stacking them like blocks. The pet shop owner had said that this turtle was very calculating and intelligent.

"Well, turtle-bo, you are quite smart," he said. "You managed to get out of the box and then come over here to play. That's quite a stack you've built."

With a gurgle of joy, the turtle crawled over to another pile of rocks. However, this one was more structured. A long stone was balanced on top of two stones like a saw-horse, and atop the long stone was a single rock.

"Well, now doesn't that look like a warrior on a horse?" Splinter said. "You are going to be a sculptor someday, I think. Now, let's go back to your brothers."

The turtle fussed and struggled when Splinter picked him up and carried him back to the box. He set him inside with the rest of the squalling turtles. Then, he picked up the entire box and headed off to subterranean room he had found.

As he walked past the shy turtle's collection of stones, he looked again at the equestrian-like structure. He paused. It reminded him of the statue that Tang Shen had admired so much at the art museum's Renaissance exhibit.

_You are going to be a sculptor someday, I think._

What was that sculptor's name?

Splinter picked up the rocks and put them in the box so that the turtles could play with them before he continued on to the abandoned subway station. However, halfway there, the turtle were fighting over them and banging each other on the head with them, so Splinter took them out and tossed them on the floor of the turtles.

He was rewarded for his peacemaking efforts by listening to the turtles scream and cry the rest of the way there.


	3. Chapter 3: Memory's Accusations

**Author's Note: Sorry this chapter is so short. My real life responsibilities require me to write in spurts. Now I have to go change to laundry. Hurrah. Thanks to everyone who has reviewed this. I might have quit if not for your encouragement. I hope you enjoy this next bit. Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to these characters.**

When they finally arrived, Splinter set down the box. "I will be back," he said. "I just have to get the rest of our things." He hurried to fetch the items he had left behind, hoping that the turtles would still be there by the time he returned. Fortunately, they were all accounted for when he came back, but once again the shy turtle had played escape artist. He was contentedly examining the leaves on the ground beneath the tree.

Splinter tipped the box to let the rest of the turtles out and fed them the soggy remains of the head of lettuce. He kept an eye on the grate above them, waiting until it would be dark enough to venture out to retrieve his belongings.

In the meantime, he played with the turtles.

"Now, let's see," he said, talking more to himself than the turtles, "what was that sculptor's name? It started with a 'D'—Da Vinci? No. That would be Leonardo Da Vinci." He searched his memory, trying to remember any of the artists' names. He wondered if the only reason he remembered Da Vinci was because of the pizza place.

Tang Shen would have laughed at him for this. He could almost imagine her now, saying something like _Of course you know food, Yoshi, but not who painted the Sistine Chapel!_

With a chuckle, he imagined himself quipping backthat he very well knew that Michelangelo had painted the Sistine Chapel, thank you very much.

Da Vinci. Michelangelo. Who were the other artists? When another name popped into his mind, he remembered that Raphael was a painter, not a sculptor.

It would come to him eventually.

Finally, when night fell, Splinter put the turtles in the box and sang them to sleep. His own voice sounded lonely to him; he was used to singing this lullaby in two part harmony with Tang Shen. Nevertheless, the turtles easily drifted off to sleep. Once he was sure they were asleep, he folded the box shut. A gap allowed plenty of air in for them.

With that, he hurried off to retrieve his belongings.

The task was a long and arduous one. While he had never thought that he owned that much, it was a feat to move it out of his fourth floor apartment. He was sure that some of the things would not fit through the manholes. He could disassemble some of the furniture and take it piecemeal, though. He had at least another two weeks before the rent came due. Until then, the landlord would be no cause for worry.

Over the next several days, he repeated this process; scrounge for food and anything useful, feed the turtles, rest briefly, wait until nightfall, bring more of his belongings into the sewer. By the time he had his entire apartment empty, he was drained from more than a week of ragged labor with little sleep. He had neglected his practice in order to conserve his energy, and he could already feel certain muscles losing some of their strength from disuse.

All of his worldly possessions were now in an awkward pile on the floor of the large chamber. He opened a box that was on top of the pile and looked at the contents.

There was the picture of him with Tang Shen and Miwa. It had not been destroyed because he kept it at his dojo in Japan. There were a few other sundry items he had kept there—little good luck charms and statuettes that Tang Shen had given him to ward off bad spirits.

He had not looked at any of these since he packed them up months and months ago, along with the beautiful silk screens that divided the sections of his dojo. He had removed the screens from their wooden frames and rolled them like posters. Even so, it had cost so much to ship them, but at the time he could not bear to leave behind what he had invested so much of his money in. Not once since his arrival in New York had he unrolled them to look at them.

The statuettes now seemed as though they had done the opposite of their intended purpose, drawing in bad spirits to haunt him. He felt as though Tang Shen and Miwa were in the room with him, asking him _why._

_Why did you fuel Oroku Saki's rage? Why did you let him take you by surprise? Why did you let the house burn down, fighting him in spite of the blaze that seethed around you? Why did you not leave the battle to save us? We are dead because of you. _

_Because of you! Your negligence. Your self-entitled sense of honor. _

_You lost all honor when you let us die. _

_You deserve to be a rat, choking on the poison of your own guilt._

Splinter fell to his knees, dropping the box and scattering its contents across the floor. He sobbed until his chest hurt. He sobbed as though his own pain could be enough to wash away his iniquities.

Every sin he had ever committed against his wife rose to accuse him. He never thought that he had been a bad husband, but now every slight and error he had made in his relationship stung him. The times he had snapped at her. The times he had selfishly dedicated himself to his students and training instead of her emotional needs. His mockery of her interest in Renaissance art when he had only celebrated the life in her womb for a few moments.

_Even if you are pregnant, _he had said as they left the museum, _a silly statue of a horse and rider by some Italian fool named Donatello? That was what you liked the best? _

She had burst into tears at that. He thought it was hormones at the time. Now the memory tormented him like the flames that shrouded his home in death.

His own grief was interrupted by a cacophony of turtles crying. With a deep breath, he swallowed his emotions and went to tend the needs of the helpless creatures.

If he had failed Tang Shen and Miwa, he would not fail these new lives that depended on him.

His apartment had not had a stove, and so he had purchased small gas-operated camping stove to prepare his meals on. He measured dry rice and the cleanest water he could find into a pot and lit the stove. How long would his supply of rice and fuel last? He couldn't bear the thought of more scrounging in the dumpsters. He pushed the notion away and decided to focus on the task at hand.

As he fed slightly cooled rice to the turtles, he smiled slightly at the shy turtle's calculating appraisal of the food. The turtle seemed to be unsure of the small sticky grains. He picked up a single grain and ate it. Then he started to line the grains up on the ground in front of him like he was planning to draw a picture or something.

"No, turtle-bo," Splinter reprimanded softly. "This is for eating, not playing, see?" He took a clump of the rice in his chopsticks and placed them into his own mouth. "If you are bound to be an artist, I can find you something better than rice."

An artist.

The sculptor.

_Donatello!_

Shen's favorite of all the artists they had seen.

Like it was an act of penance, Splinter scooped the shy turtle up into his arms despite the turtle's fussing protests. "Donatello," he said softly. "I'll call you Donatello." When the turtle's fussing became a full-blown protest, Splinter put him down. "Fine. Here, Donnie-bo. Just eat the rice instead of playing with it."

Then he left the turtles alone with the rice for a moment, turned away, and wept silently.


	4. Chapter 4: Depression and Deliverance

**Author's Note: This chapter contains references to suicide. If you will be upset by this please do not read. Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to any of these characters.**

Leonardo. Raphael. Donatello. Michelangelo.

The four baby-like turtles had ceased crawling as their only mode of transportation. Now, they stumbled around on two feet occasionally.

Weeks had passed since Splinter had finally finished transporting all of his belongings that would fit into the sewers. He had set up the large chamber to make it as home-like as possible. He had even given each of his pets a little cardboard box, filled with his old clothes, to make a crib for them so that they would not escape during the night while he slept.

This proved difficult with Donatello, who routinely managed to defy his cardboard bed prison. Nearly every morning Splinter found him somewhere different, playing with whatever objects he had found. He was nearly ready to chain the little turtle to the tree.

Not that the other three did not present their own challenges. Now running around on two legs, Raphael was a holy terror. He had discovered any number of ways to make his brothers cry — and then he giggled sadistically upon accomplishing this task. Michelangelo was constantly injuring himself in some of the most bizarre ways Splinter had ever seen. The turtle managed to punch himself in the eye somehow when he was squabbling with Leonardo. He tripped and gave himself cut on his forehead — on the only remaining rock on the floor of a room that was almost 500 square feet. He sometimes pinched himself and started crying for no apparent reason. Splinter wondered what exactly was wrong with the little fellow, but Michelangelo was easily the happiest of the turtles. Leonardo followed Splinter everywhere, and was often so underfoot that Splinter had nearly stepped on him on more than one occasion.

One morning, as he lay on his mat, Splinter kept telling himself to get up. The depression had plagued him for weeks now, ever since he had looked at the picture of his dead family. He could hardly even motivate himself to meditate, let alone stay disciplined in ninjutsu. Only if he heard the turtles crying was he able to get up, and even then, it was difficult. They were running out of food. He would have to search for more at some point—hiding at night, scrounging through dumpsters—totally isolated from everyone.

Splinter thought he had never been lonelier in his life than when he lost Tang Shen. But even in New York, he was not cut off from humanity. Now he was—trapped in the filthy sewers of New York with only his four pets to keep him company. And as much as he loved them, as much they reminded him of little human babies, he knew that they would never be able to fill the void in his heart. Granted, they were the only thing that kept him going. He could not abandon the dear little animals. But they could never fulfill the need to be around people.

Splinter feared that he was descending into madness. Nearly every day, thoughts of suicide whispered in his conscious mind. The weapons he had brought with him seemed to call to him, promising relief from the deep depression that assailed him.

He felt that he did not deserve to live. He was an abomination. A perversion of nature.

He did not even cry anymore. Most of the time, when he was not tending the creatures, he did nothing but lay on his mat praying for sleep to hide him from his emotions. He was terrified that he might succumb to the suicidal urges. Who would take care of his pets? They seemed to lack some of the natural instincts of normal turtles. Would they die without him?

The impulses to end his own life were so strong some days that if he did not simply lay still on his mat he was afraid he would cross the line and simply fall onto one of his katanas.

This was one of those days. It was early. Sun was starting to peek through the grate high overhead, casting the tree's leaves with gold. He knew he needed to get up, to make sure that Donatello had not gotten himself into complete mischief. But the idea of leaving the sanctuary of his mat scared him.

A soft sound made him look up to see Donatello crawling over to the mat. The little creature had saved him the trouble. "Konichiwa, Donnie-bo," Splinter said heavily. Not even the sight of his little baby-like pet was enough to cheer him this morning.

Donatello crawled up and snuggled against Splinter's side. "Me," he said.

Splinter sighed. "What about you?"

"Me."

Suddenly, Splinter's eyes shot wide open. Was the turtle talking? Was that even possible? He sat bolt upright and stared and looked at Donatello. Surely his loneliness and desperation was causing him to hallucinate. "Did you just speak?"

Donatello giggled. "Me," he said. "I, me."

"Yes, you." He scooped Donatello into his arms and poked a finger against the turtle's chest. Could it really be possible? "What's your name?"

"Donnie-bo!"

Splinter was nearly floored. He knew the creatures were intelligent—but sentient? It was not possible. Yet, everything that had happened to him should not have been possible. He drew a deep breath and tried to think. The turtle's name was Donatello, but he had only actually said the full name once or twice. He usually baby-talked to his pets. It made perfect sense, in terms of linguistic development, that the creature would think his name was Donnie-bo. "And what's my name?" he breathed, wondering if the animal had taken notice of this as well.

"Me."

"Not your name. My name."

"Me! My! I, me!"

Splinter was taken somewhat aback. Had he never actually told the turtles his name? He never thought that they would be capable of speech or rational thought—what was the reason to tell them? He only ever referred to himself in the first person in front of them. Perhaps Donatello assumed that the pronouns actually were his name. Again, the linguistic development exactly matched human speech.

Donatello poked at Splinter's face. "Me. I, me!"

"No, no. My name is…"

Who was he, really? Hamato Yoshi had died in Japan. All that remained to him was the epithet that he had been given in grade school, by his best friend Oroku Saki. For years, he had gone by that name.

"My name is Splinter," he finally said.

Donatello gave him a doubtful look.

"I…am…Splinter-san," Splinter said carefully, pointing to himself. "You…are…Donnie-bo." He pointed to the turtle.

The turtle giggled. "Donnie-bo!" he shouted.

This woke up the other three turtles. With a groan, Splinter got up to feed them.

But a flame of hope had sprung up inside of him. If the turtles were not merely strangely mutated animals…if they, like him, were human spirits trapped inside of animals' bodies…

He was not alone.

And he never would be again.

That evening, after he fed the turtles the last of the meager rice supply, he snuck out to find food for the next several days. He didn't care if he had to scrounge. None of that mattered anymore. It didn't matter how isolated he was, or how degraded he felt by his present state. Four lives—and not just animals, but human spirits—depended on him.

The next morning, he rose early. He meditated. He practiced his katas for the first time in weeks and weeks. He stretched his sore muscles afterward.

His weapons still called to him—but they called out with months of disuse, begging for him to practice his fighting forms, to renew his inner warrior.

Maybe—someday, if the turtles really were human spirits—he would teach them in the ways of the ninja. If that happened, he needed to be ready.

He started over to his cache of ninja weapons and started to pick up the katana he had thought about impaling himself on. But now, the despair had fled away from it. Its blade shone in the light like a beacon of hope and promise to him. To his future.

He struck a forceful kata—and then was interrupted by hungry turtles. He sheathed the blade and scooped them out of their cribs.

"All right, children," he said playfully. "Just wait until you see all of the delicious things I found for you to eat."


	5. Chapter 5: My Everything

**Author's note: All right, here it is, the final chapter. Thanks so much to everyone who has read, reviewed, and/or favorited this story. I have had fun writing for you guys. I hope that you enjoy! If you would like to see another of my stories, check out "Insights." It's incomplete, but I plan to finish it eventually. Disclaimer: I do not own any of these characters.**

* * *

It was early. Too early. Splinter had woken far ahead of his usual routine, but had that happened to him on this date for the past 15 years. He always woke early this day, swimming in memories. He thought of it as his personal remembrance day.

The boys called it Mutation Day.

For Splinter, it was a bittersweet occasion, but his sons celebrated it as their birthday. Their joy, and the joys that they had given to him over the years, were the things that made this day dearer to him than he ever thought it could be.

Ah, memory. Like yin and yang, his life was filled and made whole by contradiction. Joy and sorrow made him whole.

A sudden clatter from the kitchen reached Splinter's keen hearing. Who else would be up this early? The noise was soon followed by the sound of off-key humming.

Of course: Michelangelo. He must have gotten up early to make a special meal for Mutation Day. Of all of his sons, Michelangelo was the most full of love for those around him. In his own special way – well, yes, very _special _– the boy thrived on service to others.

With a surge of affection welling in Splinter's heart, memories of his youngest son began to fill his thoughts.

Ah, Michelangelo. He was the very first turtle that Splinter had chosen. His adorable antics and his tiny size had simply made him irresistibly cute. Even though Splinter had long since ceased calling the boys by their childhood nicknames, he occasionally slipped and called his youngest Mikey.

Michelangelo, fortunately, did not care – or notice. In fact, he had been devastated when Splinter stopped using the diminutive after his name. Though Splinter had explained that it was because the boys were too old for baby-talk now, Michelangelo persisted in the use of "-bo" for at least another year. While the other boys simply dropped the suffix and continued to use their nicknames, Michelangelo insistently used it—especially with Raphael. It infuriated Raphael to no end. Splinter finally stopped intervening, figuring that Michelangelo would eventually tire of being slapped around by his brother.

He didn't.

However, he did hit a phase where suddenly everything he did had to be "cool." He wanted to skateboard because it was cool. He wanted to dance because it was cool. After years of struggling to choose a single weapon, he chose the nunchuks because they were cool. Picking up all of the lingo he could from the old comics and such that Splinter had found for them over the years, he tried to talk like he was cool. He refused to go by Mikey-bo because it was not cool.

Personally, Splinter thought that Michelangelo's use of vernacular was more idiotic than cool, but it was endearing. In fact, "endearing" was a word that defined his youngest son. His bizarre antics and moronic behavior mystified them all. Donatello had said it best: "I think Mikey got the shallow end of the mutagen pool." He had meant it as an insult at the time, but his voice brimmed with genuine love.

Splinter and his three oldest boys did not love Mikey in spite of his idiocy; they loved him because of it.

Nevertheless, Splinter wished that he could help Michelangelo gain a more mature mental and emotional state. While none of his sons were exemplary when it came to maturity, Michelangelo was especially problematic. Patience had never been one of Splinter's virtues, which was rather ironic considering that he was a ninja. Well, he was patient with combat, not with interpersonal skills.

So many times over the past 15 years he had yearned for Tang Shen's presence. She would have been able to civilize the boys in a way he never could. Her energetic nature was exactly what Michelangelo needed from a parent. Splinter was too quiet and solemn to even come close to understanding his youngest, and he knew it.

A sudden clatter from the kitchen jerked Splinter out of his memories. Michelangelo must have dropped a pan.

"Geez Mikey," came a harsh voice from the kitchen. "Could you be any louder out here? And are you humming _This Girl is on Fire_?"

"So what if I am, Raph?"

Raphael made his voice high-picthed. "I'm Michelangelo. I like girly songs. _This turtle's on fire…_"

"Cut it out, Raph!"

"_This milk is expired…_"

"Stop it! I don't like Alicia that much, okay? Geez!"

"_Mikey is a liar…_"

With that, crashing ensued as Michelangelo yelped.

Raphael.

Splinter filtered out the noises as more memories came to visit him.

Raphael had tested Splinter's patience nearly as much as Michelangelo, but the hot-headed turtle was far cleverer than his brother—sharp tongued and sharp witted, Raphael was usually single-handedly responsible for all of the fighting.

He certainly had been responsible for their dropping of honorific suffixes and switching to English titles. He found it especially hilarious to call Leonardo "Leonardo-sama," which naturally started friction. Splinter always worried that the two were going to end up seriously hurting each other with their fighting. Splinter had repeatedly told the boys not to use the superlative suffix out of context, and had threatened them on multiple occasions. Naturally, they did not stop—they just stopped using it in front of him.

One day, however, Raphael's bad habits betrayed him. Splinter had reprimanded him for leaving a mess in the dojo, and Raphael responded in a voice dripping with sarcasm, "Well excuse me, Splinter-sama!"

Splinter explicitly said that if he ever heard another honorific used unless it was directly toward a Japanese person, he would personally make sure they could never speak again. The real terror in Raphael's eyes promised that he would comply with Splinter's wishes.

Ah, Raphael. Splinter admired his son's natural inclination toward the fighting skills of ninjutsu. But there was a side to his second oldest son that terrified him.

It was the side in which he saw himself.

He too had been an angry young man, quick to challenges and violence. He had learned all too well the self-destructive nature of anger—and too late.

He prayed that his son would choose a different path—a path of wisdom and patience.

Perhaps that was why Raphael and Leonardo clashed so much. Leonardo naturally exemplified the spiritual and mental qualities of a ninja, even if he did not have Raphael's brute strength. Leonardo already possessed some of the attitudes that Splinter had worked for years to attain.

Leonardo, his eldest, his wisest, his most patient—

"Shut up, you guys! Some of us don't want to be awake this early! If you don't pipe down I am going to skewer you both!"

Well, perhaps not patient immediately after being woken up too early in the morning, but he was patient in general.

"I'd like to see you try, Lame-o-nardo!"

"Yeah! You gonna take us both, Leo?"

"I have two swords for a reason!"

Yelling and crashing ensued.

With a groan, Splinter rolled over to a more comfortable position. Sometimes, he wished that he had mutated into a creature with far less acute hearing.

Perhaps Leonardo was not always exemplary, but he was far more level-headed than the other boys. Donatello, for all his intelligence, was overly excitable. He would often over-think things and get himself too worked up. Michelangelo was all over the map; his head was as level as an exploding volcano. Raphael—well, he was a volcano. A stately mountain prone to erupt at any moment.

Leonardo embodied the way of the ninja. Even before he had mutated, the turtle was fascinated with Splinter. As he grew, he seemed starving for knowledge regarding the ancient art. Splinter could not have been prouder of him.

"O-w-w-w! LEO!"

All right, maybe he could have been.

A new voice joined the fray. "Okay, Leo? I just have to ask: where is the logic in yelling at someone to be quiet and then doubling the decibel output yourself?"

"Yeah, Leo. What Donnie said."

"Shut up, Mikey. You have no idea what I just said."

"I do too!"

"_Mikey is a liar…_"

"Shut it, Raph!"

"No, all of you shut up! You're going to wake up Splinter!"

"But Leo, that's my point. You came out here to shut them up and you made it even noisier."

"And you're not helping by arguing with me."

"Maybe if you made sense I wouldn't have to argue with you."

"Okay. New plan. I vote we all beat up Donnie so he stops acting like a know-it-all."

"Good plan, Raph."

"Hey!"

Splinter cringed at the following chaos. He briefly considered going out to scream at them, but he found himself drifting off into memories once again.

Donatello.

Splinter deeply loved all of his sons, each for different reasons. But Donatello...well, he did not love him more than his other sons, but felt the love in a more intense way. All of his sons had helped to pull him out of the darkness that had nearly ended his life, but the shy little turtle had been the first to break through to him. Splinter was having conversations with Donatello in both English and Japanese before Michelangelo had even spoken his first complete sentence in either tongue.

Even his name was extremely sentimental. The name of Tang Shen's favorite sculptor reminded Splinter of who he was, who he had been. He had finally gained a semblance of peace about his past, and the name Donatello made it feel as though Tang Shen was there with them in spirit, guiding the whole family through the strangeness of their existence.

Donatello had been the first to rescue him, when Splinter was weaker than he had ever been before in his life. His brilliant son would never know how much those first words did to save his life.

They had become the center of his world. Splinter had never loved anyone as deeply as his four adopted sons—except, perhaps, Tang Shen and Miwa. He would die a thousand times over to keep them safe, to keep them from meeting the fate his wife and daughter did.

But they were becoming men. Practically every Mutation Day for the past fifteen years they would ask him if they could go up to the surface. He had always said no. However, not a few weeks before today he had tested them, dressed as Sojobo's tengu. They had passed. Soon, he would have to release his grip on them and let them live their own lives.

In his heart, his wished that he could once again fit them all into a cardboard box and keep them in his grasp forever. He chuckled at the thought. Even then, however, Donatello would have figured a way out.

Finally, the crashing became so intense that Splinter could no longer be still. He rose from his bed and headed to the kitchen to yell at them—if they were lucky. If not…he grabbed his staff just in case.

* * *

"Happy Mutation Day!" shouted Michelangelo.

"Happy Mutation Day!" Leonardo, Raphael, and Donatello chorused in reply.

"Ah yes," Splinter said. "Fifteen years ago today, our lives changed forever, and we became the unlikeliest of families."

"Tell us the story, Master Splinter!" Michelangelo begged.

"Michelangelo, I have already told it many times."

"Please? Plea-ea-ease?"

"Please!" cut in Raphael, clapping his hand over Michelangelo's mouth. "It's the only way to shut Mikey up!" *

"Very well." As Splinter launched into the familiar narrative, he found himself dreading the inevitable question. He wondered if he should tell them just how much they meant to him, how he had been reborn when the turtles came into his life. Instead, he simply took the canister he had saved from so long ago and held it up. "It was the mysterious contents of this canister, that in a way, gave birth to us all."

Michelangelo snatched the broken glass container and hugged it. "Mom," he said lovingly.

Splinter shared a simultaneous blink of disbelief with his other three sons, and then suddenly, it came.

Trying to sound casual, Leonardo spoke up. "So, Master Splinter…now that we are fifteen, don't you think it's time we go up to the surface?"

_No. Absolutely not. I can't ever let anything happen to you. You are my world. You are my life. You are all I have. You saved me and I will never let you go._

_On the other hand, you are getting older…perhaps soon…_

"Yes.

"And no."

The boys put up a huge fuss. Donatello tried to out-logic him. Raphael groaned and Mikey pouted. Then, Leonardo spoke again.

"Sensei, I know you are trying to protect us…"

_Of course I'm trying to protect you, Leo-bo. Raph-bo. Donnie-bo. Mikey-bo. My sons, my little sons._

"…but we can't live our whole lives down here."

The words echoed inside of Splinter's head. What kind of life was he giving them, anyway, by keeping them trapped down in the sewers? They deserved better…

But how could he let them go?

He looked up at his sons. All four of them gazed at him with pleading in their eyes.

At that, he could no longer resist them. "You may go. Tonight."

* * *

There they stood, armed and ready to venture out into the world. Katanas and sai, bo-staff and nunchuks, bravery and fierceness and intelligence and heart all stood before him. His sons. And he was letting them go.

He could not contain the bursts of parental advice that gushed out of his mouth, even though he could see that the turtles were fed up with him. He even told them to use the bathroom first—he had forgotten his boys were becoming men and could take care of themselves. But New York restrooms were certainly worthy of caution.

"SENSEI!" his sons shouted at him.

With a sigh, Splinter said, "Good luck, my sons."

As the boys cheered and ran out of the lair, Splinter could not stop himself. "Look both ways before crossing the street!"

They ignored him. In their absence, he felt deflated.

_Good luck, my sons. _

_My sons. _

_My everything. _

The End


End file.
